


colors don't fade

by buttered_onions



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Black Paladin: Sam Holt, Gen, Keith (Voltron)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 17:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttered_onions/pseuds/buttered_onions
Summary: Commander Holt comes back, and Shiro doesn’t. Keith can get through this, too.A remix of Engine Won't Turn, by yet_intrepid.





	colors don't fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yet_intrepid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Engine Won't Turn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666515) by [yet_intrepid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid). 



> SURPRISE and IN THE NICK OF TIME. This is an AU fic, not a pre-or-post s4 fic. I wanted to get it up before the air date regardless....and here I am with three hours to spare :) This fic is exceptionally unbeta'd, but I'm pleased regardless. Thank you to the mods of the VLD Remix for running this event so smoothly!
> 
> to yet_intrepid/andriseup/brooke: keeping this secret from you was the hardest. I knew the second the Remix was announced which fic I wanted to remix - and this is it. I hope you enjoy even a fraction of this as much as I've truly enjoyed yours. <3
> 
> From [Engine Won't Turn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666515), Chapter Five.
>
>> _“You don’t get it,” Matt says. He stops pacing, stands there still in the middle of the room, and he doesn’t look at Shiro. "We’re talking about my_ dad. _All this time, I’m trying to tell myself he’s not coming back, right, can’t spend all your time thinking about your dad rescuing you like you thought he always would when you were six, right, like — ”_
>> 
>> _He does look up, then, and Shiro thinks he looks so young, younger than he ever did even before Kerberos. All his concern for Matt, all that loneliness wrapped up in protectiveness and fear, swirls up inside him. Matt’s his only friend here, and Shiro should’ve done better. Should’ve kept Matt safe, kept the hurt out of his eyes and the bruises from his face._
>> 
>> _“I tell myself he died all alone,” Matt goes on, “that he landed on a planet without a breathable atmosphere, or that he tried to ask some locals for help and got himself shot. I tell myself he’s lost out there somewhere, the ship he stole crashed and he’s living in some cave eating bugs. And I just - I just can’t tell myself that anymore, okay? Not now that there’s actually some evidence for all this stupid hope.”_  
> 

Finding out about Shiro hurts.

Keith’d known almost since meeting Shiro that Shiro would have to leave for a little while, that outer space called to Keith’s best friend, dogged his footsteps until Shiro answered with a beaming smile and a hope so wide Keith yearned to follow. Shiro’s star has always burned too brightly for him to stay on Earth. The news that Shiro’s mission had failed - that he wouldn’t be coming back - is almost inconceivable. It _is_ inconceivable, and it’s hard. It’s desperately hard to wrap his mind around. Shiro’s gone, and nobody’s done more than a funeral, more than insurance paperwork, more than a terrible, sickening twist of lies.

Shiro can’t be gone.

It takes Keith the better part of a year to learn to cope with that, to pull himself up in the mornings, to push through being kicked out of the Garrison and through living in the desert. It takes time. It takes too much time. It’s too much, and it’s not enough. Shiro’s gone, and that hurts more than the delivery of the news ever did.

When Commander Holt arrives - when the long-predicted astral event finally occurs - Keith has a brief, stupid, fragile burst of hope. It burns through him, so sharp and clear that it punches a hole in his chest.

If Commander Holt could come back, then surely -

\- surely Shiro could, too.

 

Finding out about Shiro hurts no less the second time.

“I don’t know,” Commander Holt says. He’s sitting on Keith’s ratty old couch, Pidge - Katie - _Pidge_ pressed up close next to him. She hasn’t left her father’s side since the impromptu rescue last night. The Commander’s voice is steady, his gaze on Keith apologetic. “In the last…how long has it —?”

“A year,” Lance offers, to the side next to Hunk, “sir.”

“A year,” Commander Holt says, running a tired hand over his face. “In the last year, then, I’ve heard enough about Zarkon’s Arena that I know it’s a death sentence. I’m sorry, Keith. There’s no other way around it.”

“Matt,” Pidge says, before Keith can. Shock weakens his knees, traps his tongue. Shiro’s not coming back. Shiro’s not coming back and everyone is sitting in Keith’s shack like the world isn’t ending, like the fragile hope reborn over the course of a single evening hasn’t shattered for anyone else. “Shiro saved Matt’s life.”

“He did,” Commander Holt confirms. His eyes are weary but hard. “And we’re not letting his sacrifice be in vain.”

 

It’s surprisingly easy to throw himself into the cause, more or less. Even if Shiro’s not coming back, Matt was Keith’s friend, too. It’s easy enough to keep busy; easy enough to pretend like it’s normal to find a giant blue space lion in the middle of the desert. Like it’s normal to galaxy-hop - _galaxy-hop -_ so far away that not even Commander Holt can recognize the stars. Like it’s normal to land at a _castle_ with a _princess_ and have to go off and find _four other Lions_. This is normal. This is Keith’s life, now. Shiro’s gone and there’s a slowly-healing hole in Keith’s chest and this is what has to happen. Keith has to focus.

Yet in the rush of everything that comes with, in the middle of sitting in his very own Lion, feeling her stretch and awaken in the new bond they share - and in the middle of forming Voltronwith the rest of their haphazard team - in the middle of forming a _giant space robot made out of cats,_ all Keith can think of is how much Shiro would have loved this.

“Focus, Keith,” Commander Holt calls over comms.

“Yes sir,” Keith says, and thinks _For Shiro,_ and hits the throttle.

 

Luck carries them, for a while. They escape Arus. They overcome the two Lion-thieves who nearly make off with Lance’s Lion. They rescue Shay and her people at the Balmera. They form Voltron again and again and again, and they get better at it, even if Commander Holt’s still frowning when they take their helmets off, even if he’s started hanging back in the Black Lion’s hangar instead of rejoining the rest of them post-mission success like he did at first. It’s not important. They’re doing well, and they’re taking too much time. Matt could be anywhere. Matt could be anywhere, and they’re taking too much time.

Finally, finally, there’s no other debts to be paid - and even then, it just takes absolutely too much time.

 

The first Galra outpost they finally hit, hoping for information, is a dud. Pidge’s laptop isn’t compatible enough with the Galra technology to download anything useful before they’re found out. It takes Hunk, Pidge, Sam and Coran working nearly around the clock before they can make an adapter, and then it’s not wise to try and hit another Galra outpost on no sleep. Time ticks too fast and too slow. Keith trains, tries to keep busy. Tries to keep his mind off the looming worry of the unknown, the massive yawning hole inside his chest. When he gets bored, he studies the data Pidge did manage to retrieve. It’s columns and columns of recorded shipments, maybe of food or space-coal or something that even the Altean translators can’t help with. It doesn’t matter. Keith studies the data, familiarizes himself with how the Galra organize their numbers, their columns, and their details. It’s something useful. He has to be useful.

Shiro would want that, too.

The second outpost has no more useful data than the first, though Pidge’s adapter allows her to download nearly four times as much information before they’re found out and have to flee. Keith studies this data too, leaning over Pidge’s shoulder, poring over it on his own. It’s more records. It’s more dead ends. It’s more - _something._ It has to be something.

The third outpost, finally, they get lucky.

“Got ‘em,” Pidge declares with triumph. Team Voltron is safely away from the Galra and back on the Castle, hiding in the depths of space. Allura knows where; Keith doesn’t. He’s getting used to not knowing. “Here, look at this.”

An entire array of data projects on the screens in front of her, bright green columns of text across the empty space of and around the bridge.

“Mass production locations,” Coran says, just as the Altean translators catch up. Lance whoops, punching the air; Hunk bumps fists with Pidge, cheering excitedly. Keith smiles. Sam breathes a sigh of relief, his grip on the back of Pidge’s seat relaxing. “Well done, Number Five!”

“It’s a start,” Pidge agrees, grinning from ear to ear. Keith can’t blame her. The tense knot of apprehension in his chest is starting to loosen, the yawning uncertainty eager to burn and mend. This is a breakthrough. This could be everything. They’re so _close._

“Do we have any way to narrow this down?” Hunk wonders aloud, poking at Pidge’s data. Pidge swats his hands away.

“That’s a lot of places,” Keith agrees, narrowing his eyes towards the list.

“We are dealing with an infrastructure that has had ten thousand years to organize itself,” Allura says, tilting her head. Her fingers tap at her elbows, arms folded thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised there are so many. I can flag these on the star charts, certainly.”

“This data’s organized, look,” Coran says, tapping at the headers of what Keith’s fairly certain are columns. “Location, main export, number of manual laborers - was it a large camp, Sam?”

“It might have been,” Commander Holt says, frowning. The line of tension between his brows is deeply creased. The black highlights of his uniform catch the lights strangely; he wears the suit with ease, but there’s a stiffness to his shoulders that’s almost new. Keith can relate. His own armor sits heavy against his chest - heavy, but right. “The camp focused on machinery, I believe. I wasn’t down in the factory very often, I couldn’t say. They kept the technicians separate, so I don’t know how many prisoners there were. Matt said the medical facility wasn’t large.”

“Sounds like a small camp, then,” Hunk suggests, “Unless they’re understaffed?”

“The Galra aren’t keen on medical treatment,” Commander Holt corrects, tightly. His voice is grim. “They’ll help often enough so they don’t lose a worker, but you’ll pay for it. Matt’s lucky his leg healed fine.”

Pidge’s head whips up; Lance startles, speaking before she can. “His leg - “

“I’ll start with the location closest to ours, then,” Allura decides, overtop of their confusion. Her fingers are already working, flying over thin air to pull up the star charts. “If nothing else, actually visiting a labor camp may provide the rosters we need - ”

“Hang on,” Keith says, as Pidge’s data scrolls past something familiar. She startles, attention drawn away from her father as Keith points towards her screen. “Click that. The - triangle thing.”

Pidge’s fingers pause on the keys. “Why?”

“There were several in the crops-rotation files I looked at, from the last outpost,” Keith explains. Lance gapes at him; Keith soldiers on. “I couldn’t tell you what else was in there, but I can tell you: that’s the marking for a subfolder. Open it.”

“Open it, Katie,” Commander Holt says.

Pidge dutifully taps the air-screen in front of her.

The main data shrinks, pushed immediately to the right. An entire section of new columns opens up, folding out from the first in an accordion-like list. Each new line item is marked again with that distinctive triangle-like symbol. It’s a treasure trove of new, previously-hidden files.

Every single one of them is labeled with a seven-digit number.

Commander Holt sucks in his breath sharply.

“Dad?” Pidge asks. Her voice trembles.

“Are those totals?” Allura asks, stepping closer. Everyone’s crowded over Pidge’s shoulder now, watching as she flicks her fingers carefully and slowly through the list of numbers. “Coran, what kind of an inventory is this?”

“One million, one hundred-sixty-one-thousand, eight-hundred fifty-four?” Lance reads aloud. “A million-odd what?”

“Whatever it is, they’ve got a lot of it,” Hunk agrees fervently.

“Those aren’t totals,” Commander Holt breathes. His hand shakes in the air as he reaches; Pidge lets him scroll, from _116-1854_ through _116-9521_ and _117-0025, 117-0027 -_ “Those are identification numbers.”

 

The world narrows, as it did when Keith found out the first time. The world narrows to a tunnel, a focus as clear as the burning sharp ache inside Keith’s chest. It’s a longing, maybe: a longing that’s finally been given a path. A longing, seeded and too deeply grown.

“Identification numbers?” Allura repeats. Her voice comes to Keith distantly, underwater.

“Yes,” Commander Holt says. There’s a new hardness in his eyes, a glimmer of fire-driven steel resolve. “We’re looking for 117-9873. Is this searchable?”

“I can make it searchable,” Pidge swears. She taps furiously into a small box in the corner of her screen. The data beeps, flashing a red square across the entire console. Pidge frowns fiercely and closes the window, backing out to the main list and into a new subfolder. “Not that one. Maybe- ”

Her second search turns up empty, too.

“Split it up,” Commander Holt orders. His daughter rushes to comply. “Split it in seven and send it to each console. Everyone?”

“What number are we looking for again?” Lance calls, already halfway to his station. Keith settles down in his own chair, just as the screens ping with incoming data.

“117-9873,” the entire room choruses to him.

“9873,” Lance repeats, frowning with determined focus.

“Filter out any that say _Terminated,”_ Commander Holt calls to the room at large. “I’m not interested in those right now.”

Keith sits straight up, the fire in his chest a living thing. “But sir - ”

“We’ll look for Shiro’s after we’re en route,” Commander Holt says, quiet enough to carry. The unspoken hangs in the air. “And do me a favor, please. Whichever of you finds 117-9873, don't open it.”

“But Dad - ”

“Just don’t, please,” Commander Holt says, and it’s disguised as a favor but his voice brooks no argument. “I’ll look through it myself.”

Pidge’s eyes flash behind her glasses. “I’m not afraid - ”

“The data, Katie,” Commander Holt says, and Keith’s console pings as Pidge sends his portion over.

 

It doesn’t take long.

“I got him!” Hunk crows, at exactly the same time that Coran exclaims - “Found the boy!”

“Wait, what?” Hunk asks, reeling, but Coran’s already projecting his set of data up on the larger screens. _117-9873_ blinks down at all of them, a blue-highlighted line of text near at the bottom of a list. The word _alive -_ no, _active -_ shines bright from one column over: _117-9873 | ACTIVE |_ and then a strange, four-pointed symbol that Keith can’t decipher.

“Matthew,” Commander Holt breathes, stepping forwards as if the list alone can reveal his son.

Lance shouts in triumph; everyone’s cheering. Keith lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. This is it. They’ve found Matt. They’re going to _go get him,_ and everything’s going to be alright.

They’ve done it. Shiro’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain.

They’ve done it.

“Aw man,” Hunk groans, slumping lower in his seat. “I thought I had him.”

“What’s that symbol in the corner?” Allura asks, frowning at the projected data.

Lance flaps an idle hand. “Keith’s the expert, ask him.”

“I’ve never seen that,” Keith counters. “It wasn’t in crop-rotations.”

“There’s one in my data too,” Hunk says, “Top number, someone come look. I don’t think my eyes are working, they’re tired.”

“It’s there because there’s a note in Matthew’s file,” Commander Holt says grimly, as Lance heads for Hunk. The four-pointed symbol flashes, onscreen, once every other tick.

Pidge is already on the move, bent to her own data. “Then we’re reading it.”

“Katie,” Commander Holt starts, turning to her with a strange expression on his face - not quite panic, not quite resignation. Keith blinks.

“I really thought I had him,” Hunk groans to Lance, as Commander Holt rushes across the bridge towards his daughter’s station. Keith rises too, shifting position more towards the center of the room. Matt’s data projects on the screen above - a number and a list of text Keith can’t read. It’s enough. They’ve found him. This is enough.

Lance pats Hunk on the shoulder good-naturedly, perching on the armrest to read Hunk’s data. “Cheer up, big guy, everyone’s eyes gets tired. I’d mix up - what is that?” He squints at Hunk’s screen, reading aloud. “117-9875, bud, not 9873. Easy mistake. You did good.”

“Just glad he was in Coran’s file,” Hunk grumbles good-naturedly.

“What did you say?” Commander Holt interrupts, his head jerking up.

“Or not,” Hunk backpedals, quickly. “No, no, I didn’t say anything. Just glad we found Matt. We found Matt, right?”

“Not you, Lance,” Commander Holt clarifies. He stands up from Pidge’s station; his back is alarmingly straight in the armor of the Black Paladin, his eyes wide and almost frantic, like he’s seen a ghost. “What number did you just read?”

“Uh.” Lance ducks his head back down to peer at the data. The world slows down, an odd hop-skip of motion. Keith’s heart pounds strangely in his ears. “117-9875? He’s got the same flag-thing Matt’s file does. Want me to open it?”

The blood absolutely drains from Commander Holt’s face.

And then he turns towards Keith.

 

Finding out this time hurts, too - but it’s a different hurt, a resolution to the hole in Keith's chest as it blossoms with a desperate, ferocious hope.

 

“That’s Shiro’s number,” Commander Holt says, to the room, to his daughter, to Keith. His face is pale and equally full. Keith can barely breathe. “117-9875 is Shiro’s number. If his file’s here - if he’s in penal lockdown like my son is - then the Arena didn’t kill him after all.”


End file.
